Though None Go With Me
by star wars for Jesus
Summary: Five years after failing to locate Ahsoka Tano on the planet of Cercan, Clone Captain Rex is sent by Lord Vader himself on a solo mission-to locate a recently escaped convict by the name of Asajj Ventress, of all people. The problem: he's not the only one looking for Ventress.
1. Chapter 1

_**(REX)**_

"Of course I'll do it."

That's what I told Vader at least, when he gave me this assignment. But how else could I have responded? Telling him no, I won't, wasn't an option; no isn't even in his vocabulary. He simply gives commands, expect us to obey them because we can see death reflected in his ebony carapace of a mask.

The mission: find the quarry, even if it costs you your miserable, too-brief yet far-too-drawn-out life. The quarry: Asajj Ventress, former Separatist war criminal. Known friend of the Jedi, after she ceded from the Seps. Escaped convict—recently escaped, moreover, so the Empire's still smarting from the blow. It's embarrassing, you know, to let a high profile inmate slip through your blubbery fingers.

By now, the good ole' Empire is five years old, so it should be better than this. Be doing better. Reaching farther, clamping it fist around the throats of every star system in sight—but as of right now, it's taking a short break from that. They need to tie up loose ends, apparently, and shear away the final, ragged edges of the past.

Oh, and here's where it gets interesting: I'm going solo on this one. No partners. No back-up. Just me, my years of honed battle training—and Asajj Ventress. Which is fine by me; really, it is. There's no one I'd care to take with me, would want to have at my side—not after Cody passed on, anyway.

I sniper got him, of all things. A lousy, moronic I'm-too-yellow-bellied-to-show-my-face _sniper_. And it only took one shot from that low-life to end it: plasma singing through Cody's helmet, leaving a searing, flaming tunnel where there should've been brains.

Blast it, I _miss him_.

So very, very much.

But there's no time to dwell on this. There's not. I have to take my cue from the Empire, make a clean, anti-septic break with the past, and dive in.

Priority one in my brief, yet too-long life: the mission. Always the mission. Never my brothers—not officially, anyway. Officially, I am what Vader had molded me into, a living weapon who stares oblivion in the eyes and refuses to blink.

I have decided that for now, this is what I'll be. I'll humor Vader, indulge him. Placate him.

I have decided on a lot, lately.

___**(BEN)**_

"Of course I won't do it."

That's what I tell her, at least. Her, as in the woman seated across from me in my dreadful, force-forsaken hovel. As in the woman who bears a suspicious resemblance to a Dathomiri Witch, with her milky skin and silvered, lupine gaze—the latter of which is nailing me with a resolved glare. "Why not?"

"You know why not," I reply mildly. "And you never answered my question: how did you find me?"

She waves that away with one long, bony hand. "Doesn't matter. What matters is that I've been sent by Commander Tano. And Duchess Kryze—although, she made certain that I clarify the fact that her given name is 'Bo-Katan'."

I sit a tad straighter in my chair, regarding the possible Dathomiri with disguised interest. I know those names, yes. They…waken something in me, bringing to mind a side of me that's slept a long, long while. Long enough for my hair to silver almost completely, and for time and the grueling desert winds to etch new lines in my face.

It's been five years, I think.

Long enough for me to view this new assignment (Hah—I haven't even decided if I'm going to allow myself to be assigned in the first place) in perspective.

I shake my head. "Sorry, but it's too risky. I have my own mission. My own assignment. And tracking down Asajj Ventress simply isn't a part of that; in fact, I believe it will put my current mission at stake."

"You know," she says, finger rummaging through her body-suit's pockets, "Master Kenobi wouldn't have to be the one to find her."

Hearing the title "Master" before my surname makes me stiffen, flinch. I can't let myself go back there. Can't remember being a J—being _that_—because that memories brings with a dark, labyrinthine forest, the gnarled, cadaverous branches closing in. Intertwining me in the past. "Ben wouldn't go, either. He has things to look after, people who depend on him."

The maybe-Dathomiri cocks a hairless brow. "You're still maintaining your Je—you're still training and everything, right? Still staying sharp?"

"I am," I say, sitting back in my chair. Every night. Under the stars. Under the stars and the twin, milky moons, because really, when did the heavenly bodies ever let your secrets fly into open air?

"Yes. Well, that means you would be easily detectable, then. You're still a…you are what you are, _Ben_."

"There you go: another reason for me not to embark on your silly little errand."

"It would be," she admits, then produces something greenish and aglow from her body-suit pocket. "If not for this."

Frowning, I pluck the thing from the maybe-Dathomiri's hand. My eyes rove over it, scrutinizing it, weighting it with sight alone. It's a medallion or something, I suppose—and judging by the way it's emanating striking jade light, it's imbued with magic, too. Dark magic, most likely.

I shoot her a look. "Please tell me this isn't what I think it is."

She shrugs. "Sorry, but it is: it's a Dathomiri Chameleon Talisman. And before you ask, no: I am _not_ a Nightsister. Not currently, anyway, so you could say that I'm ex-Nightsister. Whatever floats your ship."

"And Mother Talzin—she just happened to let you keep this Talisman?" Frown deepening, I ran a finger over the thing's luminous surface. "What is this for, anyway? This—what did you call it? A…Chameleon Talisman?"

"What Mother Talzin doesn't know doesn't hurt her—or me, for that matter. And that," she says, implicating the Talisman with a nod, "will help you disappear."


	2. Chapter 2

___**REX **_

So, I'm here. At the place where Ventress was last seen (was last _reported_ being seen, anyway), with its harsh, slicing winds and tundra landscapes. Not a place I'd visit twice, but it's an easy world to get lost in, to be swallowed up by the sheer enormity of its glaciated spreads and simply…vanish.

I'm on Alzoc III, of all places. Alzoc III—where the only constants are the ice, the snow, and the incessant howl of the wind. Where things are so white and demanding and oh-so-loud that my own whisper of existence fades into the background, melding with it like the pale sky to the paler, snow-capped mountains.

Alzoc III…so I'm guessing that means there's an Alzoc II or something, right? And what about Alzoc I? I mean, for every II and III, there's got to be a I. A first. A predecessor who trudges on before us, face to the storm. Alone.

Maybe the other Alzocs died.

But…ah, never mind. I've got a mission to worry over. No time for vain musing, for starring into that midnight tunnel that will someday claim us all. No time for anything, really, so as I step into the (slightly) warm, muted heart of the bar, I begin scanning the place for potential characters. Beings who are slightly askew, who choke on morality and convention and just about everything else are more than likely to have loose lips, I've learned.

After a moment of perusing the sluggish bar-flies, my eyes land on a potential intel-source. He's male, I think, but I can't quite be certain, thanks to his armor. A little taller than me, and maybe a tad broader in the shoulders. Might be more well-muscled, too, judging by the rugged jauntiness of his bearing—but then again, that might also be the armor. So really, I don't know much about him (or her); he's merely a stranger whose helmeted head swings toward me as I approach, assessing me in that silent, unnerving way that only men with hidden eyes can.

"Whaddya want?" he demands, hand straying precariously close to his holster.

I frown slightly. His speech isn't all that eloquent, carrying with it the sloppiness of the Mid-Rim, but his accent…it's impeccable. Proper. If I hadn't known better, I'd say he was from the core, heralding from somewhere very near to the galaxy's bright, shining heart. "Whoa there, buddy. I'm not here to pick a fight, or to take anything. In fact, I'd like to give you something…" I produce a handful of Imperial credits, jingle them tantalizingly in my open palm. "Sound good?"

His helmet tilts to one side. "What's the catch?"

"You give me a little information about someone I'm trying to find."

He sits back in his chair, languid as a dozing vine-cat. "My answer's gonna depend on who you're tryin' to find, pal."

"A Dathomiri woman."

"Dathomiri?" he echoes. "You mean like those witches or something? Not to rain on your dewback or anything, but those gals are all dead, I've heard tell. Wiped out by the Seps."

"Yes. Well, this woman isn't a witch. Not anymore, anyway." I pluck a holo-device out of my vest pocket (I'm in plainclothes for this mission, to make things less conspicuous), letting it display a ghostly blue version of Asajj Ventress. "She was seen in this area a couple of days ago, according to my sources. Have you happened to have seen her since?"

"She…" His helmet tilts again, like an aak dog considering a puzzling sight. "She seems a bit familiar, but I don't know why. It's on the tip of my tongue…"

"Well, if you ever remember what's on the tip of your tongue," I say, handing him my contact information, "just call me at this number. I'd be more than happy to hear what you have to say."

As I move on to another bar-fly, I swear I hear him mutter, "I'm sure you will be, pal."

_**BEN**_

"Well, that was close."

Settling down into an adjacent chair, the not-Nightsister gives me a quizzical look. Sometimes, I don't think she knows what to make of me, as if my entire being is some living, breathing enigma. As if I'm _her_ mystery, when all the while she's mine; because I still haven't the slightest clue as to who she really is. All I know is that she's Dathomiri (most likely, anyway), is an ex-Nightsister (according to her), and _isn't_ named Thalia—although that's what I've taken to calling her. Everything—stars, atoms, thoughts—has a name, after all.

Tugging my helmet off, I take a sip of ale, gesture toward the door. Only a few minutes prior, a man exited through there, vanishing off into the Alzocan tundra. Funny thing is, he wasn't just any man: he was familiar. I had a name—oh, I had a name—to go with that face, its letters engraved into my memory like a crevices across the Jundland Wastes. "That man, Thalia. I knew him."

Taking a pull at her own ale, "Thalia" lifts a hairless brow. "Really?"

"Really. His name's Rex—_Captain_ Rex, if he hasn't been promoted in the last five years." I give my mug an idle little stir. "He's a clone, too, if that helps you understand my connection to him."

"He served under you."

"Not specifically under me, no. He was in my friend's legion—the 501st. But every now and again I was given the chance to have in my ranks, so I got to know him a little." I stir my mug again, then add, "he reminded me too much of my friend, if you ask me."

She nods, as if she completely grasps what I've just said. As if she gets it, really _gets_ it—but I know she doesn't. She can't, not in an eternity. "So…why do you think he's after Ventress? I mean, I'm frankly surprised that the Empire didn't kill her years ago or something."

"Honestly?" I shrug. "I can't say, Thalia. But I am just as surprised that she's still alive, and that the Empire never decided to simply make a clean break from the past. It's their style, keeping people like Ventress alive."

"Thalia" examines me over the lip of her mug. "Were you the one who, you know, brought her in?"

"No. We were looking for her, my friend and I, but we never did find her." I direct my gaze askance, letting it rove over my fellow bar patrons. "She'd turned herself in, apparently."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. At least, that's what she told us, anyhow. But I'm beginning to wonder if that's not entirely true."

"How so?"

Another shrug. "I'm not sure, exactly. It could be that someone in the Republic government had threaten to kill some people close to her if she didn't turn herself in."

"So she surrendered, then?"

Taking another sip of my watery ale, I smile to myself. I can't hide it under my beard, conceal it under my silvery whiskers, because…well, I shaved it off. So now—now I have a clean, smooth face that lets all my expressions seep through, unhindered. "No, I don't think it was quite that easy. She's never one to go down without a fight."

A ghost of a smile touches her lips. "Sounds like there's a story there or something."

"There is," I reply mildly. "And I'm about to tell it."


	3. Chapter 3

_**VENTRESS**_

___**7 YEARS EARLIER**_

Flames dance in my ice-eyes as an inferno engulfs Bakura, devouring its emerald gem. Gone are some of its forests, verdant and spreading and alive; gone are the songs of the birds wafting down from the trees, washing all in melodious bliss. In their places is blackness: charred, desecrated _nothing_. Void. And above the sounds of the trees—above the chants of the forest and all its dead—is the unmistakable, predatory roar of fire, raging through Bakura as if the entire world has somehow incited its wrath.

I am here somewhere, watching. Observing. Not close enough that the flames can touch me, lap me up along with the rest of the jade world—just near enough that I can see what sort of carnage my droid battalions are creating.

Then klaxons go off in my mind: force-warnings screaming _danger, peril._ I tense, hands poised above my twin hilts, and turn. Nothing yet. Just a patch of as-of-yet-un-charred-forest, its branches swaying in the hot, musty breeze of the inferno. But he's there, I realize, so I activate my blades anyway, their blood-red glow bathing the jade forest.

"Kenobi," I hiss venomously.

As if on cue, he springs down from a tree, landing cat-footed on the barren forest floor. He look spent, that Jedi, his chest heaving as if he's been fleeing from hell itself. And maybe he has: considering that he's streaked with ash, soot, and tell-tale, ebony scorch marks, I'd say it's pretty likely that he's narrowly escaped the flames.

"Ventress," he says pleasantly, wiping a thick coat of grime and soot out of his beard. "I didn't believe I would be able to enjoy your company again, after what happened on Devaron."

Devaron…that was the first place our paths crossed. And Bakura? This is only the second time, I realize—the second time I've ran into the scourge that is Obi-Wan Kenobi. The second chance I've been waiting for, asking for, so that I can finally put this to rest. Put _him_ to rest, under the peaty soil or in the very heart of the inferno.

Obi-Wan Kenobi is the first Jedi to have escaped my blades…alive.

Not unscathed, mind you. I'll bet he was licking his wounds for weeks, that man, was favoring the shoulder I wrenched from its place like a child guarding a stubbed toe. Was wincing in pain as his splintered wrist erupted in the echoes of impact, of my boot slamming, pounding it into the ground. I'll bet he even awoke in the dead watches of the night, mind fevered with nightmares of my blades nearly hitting home, coming so close that it crisped his skin. Left it raw and weeping amber pus.

Yet here he is, facing the nightmare.

"Hello, Obi-Wan," I purr languidly. I give my blade a little flick, beckoning him. "Grievous hinted that you'd be on your way here. Seems you had a bit of run-in with him."

"A mild understatement."

"And would it understating it if I mentioned that you failed to kill him—to kill a nasty, pathetic little cyborg?" I taunt, voice nearly going sing-song.

He shrugs, nonchalant. "Yes. Well. One out of two isn't so bad, wouldn't you say? Especially when one of them is as lovely as you."

"I like dead men telling me that I'm pretty."

A charmingly boyish grin warms his grime-smeared features. "I like dead women in general. They're so…lively."

I arch a brow. "Oh? I didn't realize dead men could like anything."

The grin widens. "Who says I'm dead?"

"Who says you're alive?"

Another shrug. "I do. And so are you, darling—but not for long, if I have my way."

I fix him with a sultry stare. "Do you always get your way with women, Master Kenobi?"

"No," he replies, dead pan. "But I'll make a special exception for you."

"Not if I get my way first."

"Oh, dear. What a dreadfully forward woman you are, Ventress. Your mother would be horrified."

Drawing my blades together in a humming, crimson _X_, I settle into the _Jar'Kai_ ready stance. "Mother needn't know."

He smiles again, but this time it's…empty. Rueful. No more charisma or that tantalizingly childish wit—just sadness etched with the blades of regret. "No, but you should realize that you're trapped, Ventress. It's either me…or the fire." With a whirling blue flourish, he beckons me with his blade. "Now choose."


	4. Chapter 4

_**BEN**_

___**PRESENT DAY**_

"Thalia" cants her head, eyes alive with voracious curiosity. "So what? You're not going to finish the story?"

Hunched against the bitter, slicing winds as we trudge toward our ship, I don't answer her immediately. Midnight is encroaching swiftly, bringing with it the pure, naked cold that only the dead of night can, and I don't want to be caught in any of that. It's not nutil we've safely entered our ship (nestled along the outskirts of town, naturally) and sealed it off to the cruel world beyond that I respond—but not in the way she was expecting. Rather, I ask _her_ a question.

"What does this Chameleon Talisman do, anyway?"

Shrugging out of her snow-dusted parka, Thalia shrugs. "Oh, it simply binds you with a spell: a concealing enchantment. You can still use the force, touch the force, blah, blah, blah—but no other force-users can tell you're force-sensitive. It's as if the spell is blurring that part of yourself, allowing you to keep your abilities while obscuring from other's view."

My hand strays to the talisman resting under my clothes, against my bare chest. "Does it alter my appearance in any way?"

"There are Chameleon Talismans with that capability, yes—but I didn't think you'd need to. You look totally different than you did the last time any Imperials caught sight of you." She scrutinizes me openly, as if I'm a product in need of appraisal. "Too much sun-bathing out in the Jundland, eh?"

Alarm rips through my mind, under my ribs. "You know what I used to look like?"

Another shrug. "Kryze showed me some holos of you from back in the day, then time-lapsed them a bit so I'd at least have some sort of clue what you'd actually look like." She settles onto a nearby chair, regarding me languidly with lazy, half-lidded eyes. "You two were friends or something, right? Like, good friends?"

As I busy myself with shedding my winter gear, I feel the past well up, its tides stroking the beach. I flashback to Mandalore, five years ago, as a slender, emerald-eyed woman streaks down from the blazing war-sky. As I turn to leave and she stays behind, the light of flares and concussive missiles dancing in her eyes, and then it's four years ago. Four years ago, when we crossed paths in that bar. When we decided that maybe, maybe, we had a chance. That she wasn't merely the shadow of a dead woman to me, that she was someone more. Someone special.

Then flashback to two years ago, when I'd realized that Bo-Katan Kryze really was just a fading echo of her sister.

The last time I saw her, I'd sworn I was gazing into the face of a ghost.

"Something like that," I finally say.

"Were you friends with Ventress, too?"

"Yes. No. Maybe—truth is, I don't know. I thought she had changed, but…well, escaping prison would fit her old M.O."

"Thalia" scowls. "What if the Empire was preparing to execute her or something? Wouldn't you say it'd be pretty reasonable for her to escape with…_that_…looming over head?"

"It would be," I agree, "but it still doesn't explain why the Empire's so keen on re-capturing her. Or why they've kept her alive all these years."

"She used to be an assassin, right? Well, maybe old Sids has decided she might useful to him in that way, that she can knock out a few of his enemies for him."

My head snaps up. "What did you say?"

"Thalia" blinks. "Um, I said she might be useful to him in—"

"No, no. Before that. When you said—you said 'Sids', didn't you? As in Sidious?"

She glances about, bemused. "Yeah, I guess."

"Thalia," I say quietly, oh-so softly, "that's not common knowledge."

She bites her lip. "Well, maybe Bo-Katan told me or something."

"I never told her that name."

"Okay, okay. Then it was that Togruta. That—what do you call her, again? Oh, yeah: Ahsoka. Commander Tano."

"I never told her, either."

I need to know, to know who she is. _What_ she really is, beneath the lies and "Thalia" and the not-Nightsister veneer, but not right now. Because as this very moment, in the tiny fragment within the ever-spanning paths of time and space, agony rips through the force. Slices through my conscious in an ocean of pain and mounting fear.

And I recognize who's drowning in it.


	5. Chapter 5

_**REX **_

Pain rips through me once more, claiming every thought and cell and hope. It happens a lot, these day—the agony, the bone-crushing that isn't real, only feels that way. The pressure in my brain where there isn't any, where there are only the black lumps that are spreading steadily through my nervous. They inch, snake down my spinal cord, branch off into the major nerve plexuses—and they burn. Set ablaze my entire body as they gnaw away at me, shutting down organs one-by-one.

It's a side-effect of the cloning, they tell. A symptom of what I am. Of _who_ I am, really, which is merely the shadow of someone else. I'm someone's mirror image—in the genetic sense, at least—and because of this, the little black lumps are growing. Encroaching on my body.

They say it'll kill me in under two months.

So that's why I've been sent, I guess. Not because I'm the best. Not because I'm the only one who can complete this mission, bring home the torch still blazing—but because they don't want to waste whole men on this. They want the broken one, the one who's going to die regardless of the outcome of the mission, so this task probably isn't that important. That vital, paramount. I could fail, let Ventress spread her wings and burst through the skies, and the Empire wouldn't be any worse off.

Or maybe not.

But either way, I'm still left to deal with this pain. This agony. This fire, really, that will not be extinguished by normal means. No water—no ocean, crashing heavily against the shore—can put it out, snuff it out. Only the strongest pain meds will do that, so I've no other choice but to whip out a syringe and plunge it in, sighing as relief begins to crawl through my veins.

So I suppose I can make it through another day. And the next. And the next, until the black lumps have closed in and my heart has finally been lulled to forever-sleep.

Luckily for me, Ventress appears to on-world. And somewhere nearby, too, according to the locals. I mean, it has to be her, just _has_ to be; after all, why else would so many beings recall seeing a Dathomiri female in this quaint little town?

Tomorrow, I'll have my eyes peeled for her.

___**BEN**_

It's clichéd, but…every storm is preceded by calm. By serenity. Every. One. Of. Them.

And if that's true, this night is exactly that: the calm before the storm. The stillness before the downpour. The ice before the flame, the soothing belying the imminent burn.

I feel it. Know it. See it, even, in that particular way that doesn't require eyes. Or even sight, for that matter; it just needs believing, knowing.

And I know—feel, see—that tomorrow…the clouds will burst.

But tonight, all is still. Quiet. Hushed. Subdued. Thalia's asleep, splayed across one of the bunks in her ship's personal quarters, and I'm…well, I'm nearly there. Almost. All that separates me from the silent music of sleep are two eyelids that refuse to close, that are drifting downward yet haven't sealed all the way.

I'm so dead-set on stillness, I haven't pressed Thalia further on how she knows the Emperor's true identity.

Because I keep thinking about that night, when I first realized that I am truly, positively, alone.

It's not when I first became alone, mind you. That happened five years ago, when the clouds burst in earnest. When Anakin turned his back on us all, killing not everyone but enough of them to leave the survivors in agony. We're in limbo, you could say—not really dead, not yet, but not totally alive. Part of us died, that day…that day, when we became alone.

But then she came along, and suddenly, I couldn't see things quite so clearly. I was caught up in her, in the fierce green eyes and fiercer spirit, in the verve she had for life and just about everything else. Was entangled in the fact that I now had no code to follow, and that I was my own man, a new man: Ben Kenobi. So we tied a knot, vowed that only death would part our ways, and that we would always—_always_—have someone to go with us. That we'd never, ever, be alone—but that was impossible. Because that night, I realize that she had been blinding me, obscuring from my view the fact that I was teetering on a precipice.

And I was alone up there.

We were in my gritty, oh-so-sandy hovel, the stillness of night serenading the Jundland into dreamland as we lay in bed. Soon, we would—should have, blast it-drift off into slumber, and be carried forth into the frenetic dance we call day…but we didn't. I decided to kiss her softly, gently, then wound her up in my arms, immersing us both in bed-warmth.

Twisting so that her face was close to mine, Bo-Katan smiled teasingly. "Hey. I was about to fall asleep."

"Sorry," I said, letting my arms melt away. "I just wanted to know you were still there."

"Well, duh, I'm still here. I mean, were else would I go? To the Jundland? The Dune Sea?" Her flat, knifelike nose crinkled. "They're not places to be traveled lightly, or so you've told me."

"On numerous occasions."

"Yeah."

We fell into a comfortable silence, our bodies practically melded after two entire years of wedlock—or "the union", as Bo-Katan's people dubbed it. And we should've stayed that way: locked together, silent, listening as the desert's wordless hymns wafted down to us. But she had to ask. Just _had_ to, couldn't have left us in that warm, safe place.

She rolled to face me, elbow propped on the bed and chin glued to her palm. "You've been thinking of her, haven't you?"

I could have lied. I _should_ have, blast it. But I didn't. I nodded in unthinking response, distant and yet fully _there_, bound in the moment. "I thought time would mend things, but…it just keeps getting worse. Especially in the past couple of weeks—"

Her eyebrows lifted. "After I told you about the baby."

"Yes," I admitted hesitantly. I pinched the bridge of my nose hard, willing it to snap and smear my vision with blood. That way, I would have to see. I could simply amble onward, numb, unfeeling, contained—just like any good Jedi. "It's like you telling me opened some sort of gateway in my memory, allowing all the memories with your sister—all the dreams, all the regrets—to come flooding in. The life I'm living with you…it's what I wanted with her. Only it's passed—_she's _passed, too—and I know I should have let her go and—and—"

She forced a breath through her teeth. "I know, Ben. You don't have to say it."

I regarded her quizzically. "Really?"

"Really. And now is as good a time to tell you this as ever: I have to go. Back to Mandalore. My people have heard that I'm alive, that I survived that whole ordeal with that Rae'An…thing…and they want me as their leader. Even if they know I'm probably going to be some glorified Imperial puppet—which you and I both know I won't let happen. And it's safer there." She took hold of my hand, her satin brushing my weathered ground, and placed it on her (still) flat stomach. "It's safer for someone else, too."

And in that moment, I saw it: I was alone. I couldn't hold people close, too close, or they'd simply slide away. Drift off, off, off, out of my life, out of sight. Marrying Bo-Katan—that was simply an illusion, a way to bloom the flower nice and bright before it wilted, leaving me clutching its drooping stem to my chest. Just like I had always been—because really, Anakin's betrayal wasn't the beginning of my solitude. My entire life has been that, from the moment I first gulped in air till now.

They all leave, sooner or later.

And I am alone, with none to go with me.

For now, though, I have Thalia. And Rex—wherever he is. He's still alive, I know—I would've felt it if he'd died—and he's definitely still on-world. But that agony I felt earlier, the pain I felt ripping, shredding through my body as if it were my own…that had to be him.

If I weren't in hiding, I'd try to find him. Let him know that Anakin's friend is okay, he's alright, he's fine. In fact, he's better than fine: he's _alive_. Still fighting. But somehow, I know this would be a lie, and I abort the entire thought before it's grown too large.

I think he's alone, too.

And when the morning finally graces Aloz III, that's exactly how I find myself: alone. Deserted. Abandoned.

Because "Thalia's" nowhere in sight.


	6. Chapter 6

_**REX**_

"And you're _sure_ you haven't seen her anywhere? You can't have missed her. I mean, you don't see many Dathomiri these days…"

Except the man's still shaking his head, keeps reaffirming no. No, he hasn't. And me—he wants to know where I was from, why I was here. In Alzoc III, where Hell had finally perfected the art of freezing over.

I gesture pointedly toward the holo-image of Ventress I was displaying for him. "_This_ is why I'm here: to find her. So just think: have you seen anyone—anyone—who resembles this woman? It doesn't have to a carbon copy or anything; she might have disguised herself or something."

"I said I haven't seen her."

"But—"

"I haven't seen her, and end of conversation."

Then the man—an Aarkanian, judging by the porcelain skin and milky eyes and silver-white hair—stalks off, bristling. Leaving me alone. Great, then—that's just what I need, another dead end. Another negative, another missed mark. Which I'm guessing means that it's back to square one, so I shuffle in to another sad, sagging building and comb through its denizens.

Nothing.

Funny, but I'd thought I'd locked onto her. I mean, I was pretty sure she had docked somewhere in outskirts of town, but no one there seems to have seen her. And no one's seen a ship settled here since like, last night, which means that my lump-pains have totally screwed the mission. If I'd just been able to push, struggle through, if I'd sucked it up and carried on like I would've during the war, I would've had her.

I must really be on the verge of death, then, because I've been through worse. Much worse. Like that time on Salucami, when a blast bolt sung through my shoulder, or when my body was ravaged with that blasted virus I've forgotten the name of. I just remember that it was blue: an azure wraith slinking through the air, hissing into our lungs and seeping through our blood. Back then, I really had looked death in the face—and I'd been okay with it. Had been alright with the dregs of life that I still had, and had shirked the sting and the pain till I was certain I had the mission in the hole.

And I now I simply let her wriggle out of my near-grasp.

Pathetic.

Six hours of dead-ends later, I slump into a bar seat, my head throbbing with whispers of lump-pain. The bar-tender wanders over, asks me if I want—need—a drink. I nod a yes—yes, I need, need, _need_ a drink, something that I can toss down my throat to quell reminders of impending death. Something strong to burn bright, brighter than my mounting headache, so she does just that. And then I blink.

She's…a Togruta. Shapely, but not overly-salacious. Just elegant and bound in lean, wiry muscle that leaps beneath her sun-set hide.

As she slaps my drink onto the bar, she notices my stare and shows me a shy smile. "I bet you don't see many of my kind out here, on Alzoc III. Must be a bit of a culture shock for you."

Gulping down the potent spirits, I mumble an agreement. But really, it's more than that. More than mere culture shock, more than infant eyes opening wide to skies spreading and wider still. It's…déjà vu, I suppose. Like I've seen her before, but can't quite recall the how or who or why or what. In fact, her facial features aren't even reading clearly, have appeared to blur into one fuzzy, oozing mess.

It's probably not her, then. Not the girl with the far-too ancient eyes, who served not only as my commander, but as my friend. Not the scared-stiff kid who grew into the woman who had the courage to walk away from it all, turning her back on all that was familiar, that she held dear.

If this really is Ahsoka Tano, I would've recognized her instantly.

The Togruta's smelted face contorts into something resembling a frown. "Have you already been drinking today, sir? You seem like you've, you know, had too much."

I scowl into my glass and mutter "something like that"—just as a helmeted man bursts into the bar.

"Thalia! Thalia, blast you. Blast you for moving that ship and—"

And then his helmet's blackened visor lands on the bar-tender, and he freezes. Goes cold. Icy. "I was wondering when you'd turn up."


	7. Chapter 7

_**BEN**___

I have question, thousands of them. Perhaps millions, or thousand of millions, or even millions of millions. Yet the only question that I can articulate, the only one that is fully fleshed out in my mind and my tongue, is chorus of myriad "how's?" Like, how is it possible that I recognized her instantly, when Rex appeared totally bemused? How does "Thalia" know all these things about me, about Sidious? And blast it, _just how_ is that she seems to know me—really, truly _know_ me-when I've haven't even scratched her surface deep enough to know her real name.

Ahsoka—it is her, she says—purses her lips as I assault her with my barrage of how's. There's no one to overhear, within Ahsoka's stale, musty hotel room, so there's no reason for me to let up, either. To give her a break. Except that also means that she can speak freely, too, and when my list has finally began to sputter out, she shocks me anew with each and every word that forms her lips.

First of all, she tells me that the only reason I could recognize her, know her, was because she had _wanted_ me to. Willed me to see her, but she didn't let Rex through. Didn't allow his eyes to penetrate the mirage spun by the Chameleon Talisman resting beneath her lapel, allowed the spell to work its magic (no pun intended) while she held it back for me. Me…who wasn't sporting a Talisman at the moment, thanks to "Thalia". The blasted woman probably took it while I drifting through the blind-deaf-realm of sleep, stripped it off my neck before she moved her bloody ship.

Before she disappeared.

Secondly, "Thalia" isn't who she appears to be (surprise, surprise). According to Ahsoka, her Talisman bears a stronger spell, one that not only shrouds her force-sensitivity from peering eyes, but weaves an illusion as well. A façade that hides her true face, spinning an entirely new one that prevents my mind from taking hold of it. That's what most Talisman do, after all; and although "Thalia neglected to inform me of this, I now realize that the spell distorts features to all eyes familiar eyes. To gazes that would recognize you if your face wasn't a hazy, indistinguishable mask.

So this is how she knows me, knows me when I my mind can't take hold of any memory of her whatsoever. And she does know me—really, truly _knows_ me—if Ahsoka's claims are anything to go by. Which might be slightly suspect, considering how much deception has already gone into this mission, but I choose to accept her statements anyway. After all, it's not like I have any other option; it's believe her, or believe nothing, the whirlwind that buffers all thought.

Leaning against a wall, I regard Ahsoka for a moment. She's perched on the edge of her cot, which is stained deep by what has to be a dizzying spectrum of various bodily fluids and secretions, and she's fallen silent. As if there's nothing left to tell, as if she's given me nothing but the plain and simple truth. As if there aren't three words looming in the stale air above our heads, unspoken, ready to burst at the slightest prick.

Sighing heavily, I release those words: "Who is she?"

And Ahsoka simply replies, "Ventress."


End file.
